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FORD EXCH&NGP 



// 



THE 



SUMMER FETE, 



POEAZ WITH SONGS, 



THOMAS MOORE, ESQUIRE. 



PHILADELPHIA: 
AREY, LEA & BLANCHARD, CHESTNUT STREET. 

1833, 






\ 



<.^" 






1^^985 




HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON. 

For the ground-work of the following Poem I am 
indebted to a memorable Fete given, some years 
since, at Boyle Farm, the seat of the late Lord Henry 
Fitzgerald. In commemoration of that evening, — of 
which the Lady to whom these pages are inscribed 
was, I recollect, one of the most distinguished orna- 
ments, — I was induced at the time to write some 
verses, which were afterwards, however, thrown aside, 
unfinished, on my discovery, that the same task had 
been undertaken by a noble poet, whose playful and 
happy jeu-d^esprit on the subject has since been 
published. It was but lately, that, on finding the 



DEDICATION. 

fragments of my own sketch among my papers, I 
thought of founding on them such a description of an 
imaginary Fete as might furnish me with situations 
for the introduction of music. 

Such is the origin and object of the following Poem, 
and to Mrs. Norton it is, with every feeling of admi- 
ration and regard, inscribed by her father's warmly 
attached friend, 

THOMAS MOORE. 

Sloperton Cottage, 
November, 1831, 



THE SUMMER FETE. 



*' Where are ye now, ye summer days, 

** That once inspired the poet's lays? 

** Blest time! ere England's nymphs and swains, 

" For lack of sunbeams, took to coals — 
" Summers of light, undimm'd by rains, 
<' Whose only mocking trace remains 

" In watering-pots and parasols." 

Thus spoke a young Patrician maid, 
As, on the morning of that Fete 
Which bards unborn shall celebrate, 

She backward drew her curtain's shade, 

1 



5s THE SUMMER FETE. 

And, closing one half-dazzled eye, 
Peeped with the other at the sky, — 
Th' important sky, whose light or gloom 
Was to decide, this day, the doom 
Of some few hundred beauties, wits. 
Blues, Dandies, Swains, and Exquisites. 
Faint were l)er hopes; for June had now 

Set in with all his usual rigour; 
Young Zephyr yet scarce knowing how 
To nurse a bud, or fan a bough. 

But Eurus in perpetual vigour; 
And, such the biting summer air. 
That she, the nymph, now nestling there,- 
Snug as her own bright gems recline. 
At night, within their cotton shrine, — 
Had, more than once, been caught of late 
Kneeling before her blazing grate, 



THE SUMMER FETE. 



Like a young worshipper of fire. 

With hands uplifted to the flame. 

Whose glow, as if to woo them nigher, 

Through the white fingers flushing came. 

But oh! the light, the unhoped-for light, 

That now illum'd this morning's heaven! 

Up sprung lanthe at the sight, 
^ Though — hark! — the clocks but strike eleven, 

And rarely did the nymph surprise 

Mankind so early with her eyes. 

Who now will say that England's sun, 

(Like England's self, these spendthrift days) 

His stock of wealth hath near outrun, 
And must retrench his golden rays, 

Pay for the pride of sunbeams past, 

And to mere moonshine come at last? 



4 THE SUMMER FETE. 

"Calumnious thought !" lanthe cries, 

While coming mirth lit up each glance, 
And, prescient of the ball, her eyes 

Already had begun to dance : 
For brighter sun than that which now 

Sparkled o'er London's spires and towers. 
Had never bent from heaven his brow 

To kiss Firenze's City of Flowers. 

What must it be — if thus so fair 

'Mid the smoked groves of Grosvenor Square — 

What must it be where Thames is seen 

Gliding between his banks of green, 

While rival villas, on each side. 

Peep from their bowers to woo his tide, 

And, like a Turk between two rows 

Of Harem beauties, on he goes, 



THE SIMMER FBTE. 



A lover, lov'd for ev'n the grace 

With which he slides from their embrace. 

In one of those enchanted domes, 

One, the most flowery, cool, and bright 
By which that lingering river roams, 

The Fete is to be held to-night, — 
That Fete already link'd to fame. 

Whose cards, in many a fair-one's sight, 
When, look'd for long, at last they came, 

Seem'd circled with a fairy light; — 
That Fete to which the cull, the flower 
Of England's beauty, rank and power. 
From the young spinster, just come out, 

To the old Premier, too long in, — 
From legs of far descended gout, 

To the last new-mustachioM chin, 
1» 



THE SUMMER FETE. 



All were convok'd by Fashion's spells 
To the small circle where she dwells, 
Collecting nightly, to allure us. 

Gay atoms, which, together hurl'd, 
She, like another Epicurus, 

Sets dancing thus, and calls " the World." 

Behold how busy in those bowers, — 

Like May-flies, in and out of flowers, 

The countless menials swarming run, 

To furnish forth, ere set of sun. 

The banquet-table richly laid 

Beneath yon awning's lengthen'd shade, 

Where fruits shall tempt, and wines entice, 

And Luxury's self, at Gunter's call, 
Breathe from her summer throne of ice 

A spirit of coolness over all. 



THE SUMMER FETE. 

And now the important hour drew nigh, 
When, 'neath the flush of evening sky, 
All London's world, for mirth let loose. 
And mov'd, — as he of Syracuse 
Ne'er dreamt of moving worlds, — by force 

Of four-horse power, were, like the wind, 
Through Grosvenor-Gate to speed their course, 
Leaving that portion of mankind. 
Whom they call "Nobody," behind; — 
No star for London's feasts to-day, 
No moon of beauty, new this May, 
To lend the night her crescent ray: — 
Nothing, in short, for ear or eye. 
But veteran belles, and wits gone by. 
The relics of a past beau-monde, 
A world, like Cuvier's, loflg dethron'd! 
"Ev'n Parliament this evening nods 
Beneath th' harangues of minor gods, 



THE SU.1IJIER FETE. 



On half its usual opiate's share; 
The great dispensers of repose, 
The first-rate furnishers of prose 

Being all call'd to — prose elsewhere. 

Soon as through Grosvenor's lordly square, — 

That last impregnable redoubt. 
Where, guarded with Patrician care, 

Good, ancient Error still holds out, — 
Where never gleam of gas must dare 

Against Old Darkness to revolt, 
Nor smooth Macadam hope to spare 

The dowagers one single jolt; — 
Where, far too stately and sublime 
To profit by the lights of time, 
Let Intellect march how it will. 
They stick to oil and watchman still:* 

* I am not certain whether the Inhabitants of this Square have 



THE SUMMER FETE. « 

Soon as through that illustrious square 

The first epistolary bell, 
Sounding by fits upon the air, 

Of parting pennies rung the knell; 
WarnM by that tell-tale of the hours, 

And by the day-light's westering beam, 
The young lanthe, who, with flowers 

Half crown'd, had sat in idle dream 
Before her glass, scarce knowing where 
Her fingers rov'd through that bright hair. 

While, all capriciously, she now 

Dislodged some curl from her white brow, 
And now again replac'd it there; — 
As though her task was meant to be 
One endless change of ministry, — 

yet yielded to the innovations of Gas and Police, but at the time 
when the above lines were wiitten, they still obstinately persevered 
in their old rigime. 



10 THE SUMMER FETE. 

A routing-up of Loves and Graces, 
But to plant others in their places. 

Meanwhile, — what strain is that which floats 

Through the small boudoir near — like notes 

Of some young bird its task repeating 

For the next linnet music-meeting? 

A voice it was, whose gentle sounds 

Still kept a modest octave's bounds, 

Nor yet had ventured to exalt 

Its rash ambition to B alt, — 

That point towards which when ladies rise. 

The wise man takes his hat and — flies. 

Tones of a harp, too, lightly played. 

Came with this youthful voice communing; 
Tones true, for once, without the aid 

Of that most penal process, tuning, — 



THE SIMMER FETE. 11 

That process which must oft have given 

Poor Mihon's cars a deadly wound, 
So pleas'd, among the joys of Heaven, 

He specifies " harps ever tuned."* 
She who now sung his gentle strain 

Was our young nymph's still younger sister, — 
Scarce ready yet for Fashion's train 

In their light legions to enlist her, 
But counted on, as sure to bring 
Her force into the field next spring. 
The song she thus, like Jubal's shell, 
Gave forth " so sweetly and so well," 
Was one in Morning Post much famed, 
From a divine collection, named, 

* tlieir golden harps they took — 

Harps ever tun'd. 

Paradise Lost, Book 3, 



12 THE SUMMER FETE. 

" Songs of the Toilet," — every Lay 
Taking for subject of its Muse, 

Some branch of feminine array, 
Some item, with full scope to choose. 
From diamonds down to dancing shoes; 
From the last hat that Herbault's hands 

Bequeath'd to an admiring world, 
Down to the latest flounce that stands 
Like Jacob's Ladder, — or expands 

Far forth, tempestuously unfurFd. 
Speaking of one of these new Lays, 
The Morning Post thus sweetly says: — 
<' Not all that breathes from Bishop's lyre, 

" That Barnett dreams, or Cooke conceives, 
" Can match for sweetness, strength, or fire, 

" This fine Cantata upon Sleeves. 
" The very notes themselves reveal 

" The cut of each new sleeve so well; 



THE SUMMER FETE. 13 

" A flat betrays the Imbecilles* 

" Light fugues the flying lappets tell; 
'< While rich cathedral chords awake 
" Our homage for the Manches d? EviqueP 

'Twas the first opening song — the Lay 

Of all least deep in toilet-lore, 
That the young nymph, to while away 

The tiring-hour, thus warbled o'er. 

* The name ^ven to those large sleeves that hang loosely. 



14 



SONG. 



Array thee, love, array thee, love, 

In all thy best array thee; 
The sun's below — the moon's above — 

And Night and Bliss obey thee. 
Put on thee all that's bright and rare, 

The zone, the wreath, the gem. 
Not so much gracing charms so fair. 

As borrowing grace from them. 
Array thee, love, array thee, love, 

In all that's bright array thee; 
The sun's below — the moon's above, 

And Night and Bliss obey thee. 



r 



THE SUMMER FETE. 15 

II. 

Put on the plumes thy lover gave, 

The plumes, that, proudly dancing, 
Proclaim to all, where'er they wave. 

Victorious eyes advancing. 
Bring forth the robe, whose hue of Heaven 

From thee derives such light. 
That Iris would give all her seven 

To boast but one so bright. 
Array thee, love, array thee, love, 
&c. &c. &c. 

III. 

Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, 

Through pleasure's circles hie thee, 
And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, 

Will beat, when they come nigh thee. 



16 THE SUMMER FETE. 

Thy every word shall be a spell, 

Thy every look a ray, 
And tracks of wondering eyes shall tell 

The glor}'^ of thy way I 
Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, 

Through pleasure's circles hie thee, 
And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move. 

Shall beat when they come nigh thee. 

Now, in his Palace of the West, 

Sinking to slumber, the bright Day, 
Like a tired monarch fann'd to rest, 

'Mid the cool airs of evening lay; 
While round his couch's golden rim 

The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept,- 
Struggling each other's light to dim, 

And catch his last smile ere he slept. 



THE SUMMER FETE. 17 

How gay, as o'er tlie gliding Thames 

Tlie golden eve its lustre pour'd, 
Shone out the high-born knights and dames 

Now grouped around that festal board; 
A living mass of plumes and flowers, 
As they had robb'd both birds and bowers — 
A peopled rainbow, swarming through 
^Vilh habitants of every hue: 
While, as the sparkling grape of France 
High in the crystal brimmers flowed, 

Each sunset ray, that mixed by chance 
With the wines' diamonds, showed 

How sunbeams may be taught to dance. 
If not in written form exprest, 
'Twas known at least to every guest. 
That, though not bidden to parade 
Their scenic powers in masquerade, 
2* 



18 THE SUMMER FETE. 

(A pastime little found to thrive 

In the bleak fog of England's skies, 

Where wit's the thing we best contrive, 
On such occasions, to disguise,) 

It yet was hoped — and well that hope 

Was answered by the young and gay — 
That, in the toilet's task to-day, 

Fancy should take her wildest scope; — 

That the rapt milliner should be 

Let loose through fields of poesy, 

The tailor, in inventive trance, 

Up to the heights of epic clamber. 

And all the regions of Romance 

Be ransacked by ihefemme de chambre. 

Accordingly, with gay Sultanas, 
Rebeccas, Sapphos, Roxlanas — 



THE SUMMER FETE. 19 

Circassian slaves, whom Love would pay 
Half his maternal realms to ransom; — 

Young nuns, whose chief religion lay 

In looking most profanely handsome; — 

Muses in muslin — pastoral maids 

With hats from the Arcade-ian shades, 

And fortune-tellers — rich, 'twas plain, 

As fortune-hunters form'd their train. 

With these, and more such female groups. 
Were mixed no less fantastic troops 
Of male exhibitors — all willing 
To look, even more than usual, killing; 
Beau tyrants, smock-faced braggadocios, 
And brigands, charmingly ferocious; — 
Grave friars (staunch No-Popery men), 
In close confab with Whig Caciques; 



20 THE SUMMER FETE. 

And M. p. Turks, all Moslem then, 

Who last night voted for the Greeks. - 

But where is she — the nymph, whom late 

We left before her glass delaying. 
Like Eve, when by the lake she sate, 

In the clear wave her charms surveying, 
And saw in that first glassy mirror 
The first fair face that lured to error. 
" Where is she," ask'st thou? — watch all looks 

As cent'ring to one point they bear. 
Like sun-flowers, by the sides of brooks, 

Turn'd to the sun — and she is there. 
Ev'n in disguise, oh never doubt 
By her own light you'd track her out: 
As when the moon, close shawl'd in fog, 
Steals as she thinks, through heaven incog., 



THE SUMMER FETE. 21 

Though hid herself, some side-long ray, 
At every step, detects her vvay. 

But not in dark disguise to-night 

Hath our young heroine veil'd her light; — ■" 

For see, she walks the earth. Love's own, 
His wedded bride, by holiest vow 

Pledg'd in Ol3^mpus, and made known 
To mortals by the type which now 
Hangs glittering on her snowy brow — 

That butterfly, mysterious trinket, 

Which means the Soul (tho' few would think it), 

And sparkling thus on brow so white, 

Tells us we've Psyche here to-night! 

But hark! some song hath caught her ears — 
And, lo, how pleased, as though she'd ne'er 



22 THE SUMMER FETE. 

Heard the Grand Opera of the spheres, 
Her goddess-ship approves the air, 
And to a mere terrestrial strain. 
Inspired by nought but' pink champagne, 

Her butterfly as gaily nods 
As though she sate with all her train, 

At some great concert of the gods. 
With Phoebus, leader — Jove, director, 
And half the audience drunk with nectar. 

From a male group the carol came — 

A few gay youths, whom round the board 

The last-tried flask's superior fame 

Had lured to taste the tide it pour'd; 

And one, who, from his youth and lyre, 

Seem'd grandson to the Teian sire, 

Thus gaily sung, while, to his lay. 

Less and still less, like dying day, 

The flask's rich radience ebbed awav- 



23 



SONG. 



Some mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine 

As in evenings like this no enjoyment to see ; 
But, as Pin not particular — wit, love, and wine, 

Are for one night's amusement sufficient for me. 
Nay^humble and strange as my tastes]may appear, — 

If driv'n to the worst, I could manage, thank heaven, 
To put up with eyes such as beam round me here, 

And with wine such as this is, six days out of seven. 
So pledge me a bumper — your sages profound 

May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan: 
But as we are not sages, why — send the cup round — 

We must only be happy the best way we can. 



24 THE SUMMER FETE. 

II. 

A reward by some king was once offer'd we're told, 

To whoe'er could invent a new bliss for mankind; 
But talk of neiv pleasures ! — give me but the old, 

And I'll leave your inventors all new ones they find. 
Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss, 

Set sail in the pinnace of Fancy some day, 
Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this, 

And such eyes as we've here be the stars of my way! 
In the meantime, a bumper, — your angels, on high, 

May have pleasures unknown to life's limited span; 
But, as we are not Angels, why — let the flask fly — 

We must only be happy all ways that we can. 

Now nearly fled was sunset's light, 

Leaving but so much of its beam 
As gave to objects, late so bright, 

The colouring of a shadowy dream; 



THE SUMMER FETE. 25 

Vnd there was still where Day had set 

A flush that spoke him loth to die — 
A last link of his glory yet, 

Binding together earth and sky. 
Oh why is it that twilight best 
Becomes even brows the loveliest? 
That dimness, with its softening touch, 

Can bring out grace, unfelt before. 
And charms we ne'er can see too much, 

When seen but half enchant the more ! 
Why is it, but, that every joy 
In fulness finds its worst alloy. 
And half a bliss, but hop'd or guess'd, 
Is sweeter than the whole possess'dj — 
That Beauty, dimly shown upon, 

A creature all ideal grows; 
And there's no light from moon or sun 

Like that Imagination throws; — 
3 



26 THE SUMMER FETE. 

Why is it but that Fancy shrinks 

Even from a bright reality, 
And turning inly, feels and thinks 

Far heavenlier things than e'er will be. 

Such was th' effect of twilight's hour 

On the fair groups that, round and round, 
From glade to grot, from bank to bower, 

Now wander'd through this fairy ground; 
And thus did Fancy (and champagne) 

Work on the sight their dazzling spells, 
Till nymphs that look'd, at noon-day, plain, 

Now brighten'd, in the gloom, to belles: 
And the brief interval of time, 

'Twixt after dinner and before, 
To dowagers brought back their prime, 

And shed a halo round two-score. 



THE SUMMER FETE. 27 

Meanwhile, new pastimes for the eye, 

The ear, the fancy, quick succeed; 
And now along the waters fly 

Light gondoles, of Venetian breed. 
With knights and dames, who, calm reclin'd, 

Lisp out love-sonnets as they glide, — 
Astonishing old Thames to find 

Such doings on his moral tide. 

So bright was still that tranquil river, 

With the last beam from Daylight's quiver. 

That many a group, in turn, were seen 

Embarking on its wave serene; 

And, 'mong the rest, in chorus gay 
A band of mariners, from th' isles 
Of sunny Greece, all song and smiles, 

As vsmooth they floated, to the play 

Of their oars' cadence, sung this lay. — 



28 



TRIO. 

I. 

Our home is on the sea, boy, 
Our home is on the sea — 

When Nature gave 

The ocean-wave, 
She mark'd it for the Free. 
Whatever storms befall, boy, 
Whatever storms befall, 

The island bark 

Is Freedom's ark, 
And floats her safe through all! 

II. 

Behold yon sea of isles, boy, 
Behold yon sea of isles, 



THE SUMMER FETE. 29 



Where every shore 

Is sparkUng o'er 
With Beauty's richest smiles. 
For us hath Freedom claim'd, boy, 
For us hath Freedom claim'd 

Those ocean nests 

Where valour rests 
His eagle wing untam'd. 

III. 

And shall the Moslem dare, boy, 
And shall the Moslem dare. 
While Grecian hand 
Can wield a brand, 
To plant his Crescent there.'' 
No — by our fathers, no, boy. 
No, by the Cross we show — 
3* 






30 THE SUMMER FETE. 

From Maina's rills 
To Thracia's hills 
All Greece re-echoes " No!" 

Like pleasant thoughts that o'er the mind 

A minute come, and go again, 
Ev'n so, by snatches, in the wind, 

Was caught and lost that choral strain, 
Now full, now faint upon the air. 
As .the bark floated far or near. 
At length, when lost, the closing note 

Had down the waters died along, 
Forth from another fairy boat, 

Freighted with music, came this song. 



W 



31 



SONG. 

I. 

Smoothly flowing through verdant vales, 

Gentle river, thy current runs, 
Shelter'd safe from winter gales, 

Shaded cool from summer suns. 
Thus our youth's sweet moments glide, 

Fenc'd with flowery shelter round; 
No rude tempest wakes the tide, 

All its path is fairy ground. 

II. 

But, fair river, the day will come. 

When, woo'd by whispering groves in vain. 
Though leave those banks, thy shaded home, 

To mingle with the stormy main. 



32 THE SUMMER FETE. 

And thou, sweet Youth, too soon will pass 
Into the world's unshelter'd sea, 

Where, once thy wave hath mix'd, alas, 
All hope of peace is lost for thee. 

Next turn we to the gay saloon. 
Resplendent as a summer noon, 

Where, 'neath a pendent wreath of lights, 
A Zodiac of flowers and tapers — 
(Such as in Russian ball-rooms sheds 
Its glory o'er young dancers' heads) — 

Quadrille performs her mazy rites, 
And reigns supreme o'er curls and capers; — 
Working to death each opera strain, 

As with a foot that ne'er reposes, 



THE SUMMER FETE. 33 

She jigs through sacred and profane, 

From <' Maid and JNIagpie" up to *' Moses;"* — ' 
Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes, 

Till fagg'd Rossini scarce respires ; 
Till Mayerbeer for mercy sues. 

And Weber at her feet expires. 

I 

And now the set hath ceas'd — the bows 
Of fiddlers taste a brief repose, 
While light along the painted floor, 

Arm within arm, the couples stray, 
Talking their stock of nothings o'er. 

Till — nothing's left, at last, to say. 

* In England the partition of this opera of Rossini was ti-ans- 
ferred to the story of Peter, the Hermit; by which means the in- 
decorum of giving such names as "Moyse," "Pharaon," &c. (as 
was done in Paris,) to the dances selected from it, has been 
avoided. 



34 THE SUMMER FETE. 

When, lo! — most opportunely sent — 
Two exquisites, a he and she, 

Just brought from Dandyland, and meant 
For Fashion's grand Menagerie. 

Enter'd the room — and scarce were there 

When all flock'd round them, glad to stare 

At any monsters, any where. 

Among the critics, as is common, a 
Diff'rence arose 'bout these phenomena. 
Some thought them perfect, to their tastes; 
While others hinted that the waists 
(That in particular of the he thing) 
Left far too ample room for breathing: 
Whereas, to meet these critics' wishes, 

The isthmus there should be so small. 
That Exquisites, at last, like fishes. 

Must manage not to breath, at all. 



THE SUMMER FETE. 35 

The female, (these same critics said,) 

Though orthodox from toe to chin, 
Yet wanted that due width of head, 

To hat of toadstool much akin, — 
That build of bonnet, whose extent 
Should, like a doctrine of dissent. 

Puzzle church-door to let it in: — 
Nor half had reached the pitch sublime, 
To which true toques and berets climb, 
Leaving, — like lofty Alps that throw 

O'er minor Alps their shadowing sway, — 
Earth's humbler bonnets far below. 

To poke through life their fameless way. 

However — sad as 'twas, no doubt, 
That nymph so smart should go about, 
With head unconscious of the place 
It ought to fill in Infinite Space — 



36 THE SUMMER FETE. 

Yet all allowed that, of her kind, 

A prettier show 'twas hard to find; 

While of that doubtful genus, <' dressy men," 

The male was thought a first-rate specimen. 

Such Savans, too, as wished to trace 

The manners, habits, of this race — 

To know what rank (if rank at all,) 

'Mong reas'ning things to these should fall — 

What sort of notions heaven imparts 

To high-built heads and tight-lac'd hearts — 

And how far Soul, which, Plato says, 

Abhors restraint, can act in stays — 

Had now, if gifted with discerning. 

Full opportunities of learning: 

As these two creatures, from their pout 

And frown, 'twas plain, had just fall'n out; 

And all their little thoughts, of course, 

Were stirring in full fret and force; — 



THE SUMMER FETE. 37 



Like mites, through microscope espied, 
A world of nothings magnified. 

But mild the vent such beings seek, 
The tempest of their souls to speak: 
As Opera swains to fiddles sigh. 
To fiddles fight, to fiddles die. 
Even so this tender couple set 
Their well-bred woes to a Duet. 



38 



WALTZ DUET.* 

HE. 

Long as I waltz'd with only thee, 

Each blissful Wednesday that went by, 
Nor stylish Stultz, nor neat Nugee 
Adorn'd a youth so blest as L 
Oh! ah! ah! oh! 
Those happy days are gone — heighho! 

SHE. 

Long as with thee I skimm'd the ground, 
Nor yet was scorn'd for Lady Jane, 

* It is hai'dly necessary to remind the reader that this Duet is 
a parody of the often translated and parodied ode of Horace, 
"Donee gratus eram tibi, &c." 



THE SUMMER FETE. 39 

No blither nymph tetotutn'd round 
To Collinet's immortal strain. 
Oh! ah! ah! oh! 
Those happy days are gone — heighho ! 

HE. 

With Lady Jane now whirl'd about, 

I know no bounds of time or breath; 
And, should the charmer's head hold out. 
My heart and heels are her's till death. 
Oh! ah! ah! oh! 
Still round and round thro' life we'll go. 

SHE. 

To Lord Fitznoodle's eldest son, 

A youth renown'd for waistcoats smart, 

I now have given (excuse the pun) 
A vested interest in my heart. 



40 THE SUMMER FETE. 

Oh! ah! ah! oh! 

Still round and round with him I'll go. 

HE. 

What if, by fond remembrance led 

Again to wear our mutual chain, 
For me thou cut'st Fitznoodle dead. 
And I levant from Lady Jane. 
Oh! ah! ah! oh! 
Still round and round again we'll go. 

SHE. 

Though he the Noodle honours give, 

And thine, dear youth, are not so high. 
With thee in endless waltz I'd live, 

With thee, to Weber's Stop-Waltz, die! 
Oh! ah! ah! oh! 
Ihus round and round thro' life we'll go. 

[Exeunt waltzing. 



THE SUMMER FETE. 41 

While thus, like motes that dance away 
Existence in a summer ray, 
These gay things, born but to quadrille, 
The circle of their doom fulfil, — 
That dancing doom, whose law decrees 

That they should live, on the alert toe, 
A life of ups-and-downs, like keys 

Of Broad wood's in a long concerto: — 
While thus the fiddle's spell, loithin, 

Calls up its realm of restless sprites. 
Without, — as if some Mandarin 

Were holding there his Feast of Lights, — 
Lamps of all hues, from walks and bowers 
Broke on the eye, like kindling flowers, 
Till, budding into light, each tree 
Bore its full fruit of brilliancy. 
4* 



43 THE SUMMER FETE. 

Here shone a garden — lamps all o'er, 

As though the Spirits of the Air 
Had tak'n it in their heads to pour 

A shower of summer meteors there; — 
While here a lighted shrubbery led 

To a small lake that sleeping lay, 
Cradled in foliage, — but, o'er head, 

Open to heaven's sweet breath and ray; 
While round its rim there burning stood 

Lamps, with young flowers beside them bedded, 
That shrunk from such warm neighbourhood, 
And, looking bashful in the flood, 

Blush'd to behold themselves so wedded. 

Hither, to this sweet place of calm, — 
Fit but for nights whose air is balm, 
Whose light so gladsome shines aloft 

That ev'n the dew refrains from weeping, 



THE SUMMER FETE. 43 

And every breath that comes is soft 

And pure as that of infants sleeping, — 
Nights, such as Eden's calm recall 
In its first lonely hour, — when all 

So silent is, below, on high, 

That if a star falls down the sky, 
You almost think you hear it fall ! 
Hither, to this retreat, a few. 

To shun the dancers' wildering noise. 
And give an hour, ere the night flew. 

To music's more ethereal joys, 
Came, with their voices, — willing all. 
Like Echo, waiting for a call, — 
In hymn or ballad, dirge or glee. 
To weave their mingling minstrelsy. 

And, first, a dark-ey'd nymph, — array'd 
Like her, whom Art hath deathless made, 



44 THE SUMMER FETE. 

Bright Mona Lisa,* — with that braid 
Of hair across the brow, and one 
Small gem that in the centre shone, — 
With face, too, in its form resembling 

Da Vinci's beauties — the dark eyes, 
Now lucid, as through crystal trembling, 

Now soft, as if suffus'd with sighs, — 
Her lute, that hung beside her, took, 
And, bending o'er it with shy look. 
More beautiful, in shadow thus, 
Than when with life most luminous, 
Pass'd her light fingers o'er the chords, 
And sung to them these mournful words: — 

• The celebrated portrait by Lionardo da Vinci, which he is said 
to have occupied four years in painting. 



45 



SONG. 

Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying. — 
Here will I lay me, and list to thy song; 

Should tones of other days mix with its sighing, 
Tones of a light heart, now banish'd so long, 

Chase them away, — they bring but pain, 

And let thy theme be woe again. 

Sing on, thou mournful lute — day is fast going, 
Soon will its light from thy chords die away; 

One little gleam in the west is still glowing, 

When that hath vanish'd, farewell to thy lay ! 

Mark, how it fades! — see — it is fled ! 

Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead. 



46 THE SUMMER FETE. 

The group, that late, in garb of Greeks, 

Sung their light chorus o'er the tide,- 
Forms, such as up the wooded creeks 

Of Helle's shore at noon-day glide, 
Or, nightly, on her glistening sea. 
Woo the bright waves with melody, — 
"Now link'd their triple league again 
Of voices sweet, and sung a strain, 
Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear 

But caught it, on the fatal steep. 
She would have paus'd, entranc'd, to hear. 

And, for that day, deferr'd her leap. 



I 



47 



SONG AND TRIO. 

I. 

On one of those sweet nights that oft 

Their lustre o'er th' JKgcan fling, 
Beneath my casement, low and soft, 

I heard a Lesbian lover sing; 
And, listening both with ear and thought, 
These sounds upon the night-breeze caught- 
'' Oh, happy as the Gods is he, 
" Who gazes at this hour on thee!" 

11. 

The song was one by Sappho sung, 

In the first love-dreams of her lyre, 

When words of passion from her tongue 
Fell like a shower of living fire. 



48 THE SUMMER FETE. 

And still, at close of every strain, 
I heard these burning words again — 
" Oh, happy as the Gods is he, 
« Who listens at this hour to thee!" 

Once more to Mona Lisa turn'd 

Each asking eye, — nor turn'd in vain; 
Though the quick, transient blush that burn'd 
Bright o'er her cheek, and died again, — 
Like flushes Evening wears, when shy 
She meets the sun's too ardent eye, — 
Show'd with what inly shame and fear 
Was utter'd what all lov'd to hear. 
Yet not to sorrow's languid lay 

Did she her lute-song now devote; 
But thus, with voice that like a ray 

Of southern sunshine seem'd to float, — 
So rich with climate was each note, — 



THE SUMMER FETE. 49 



Call'd up in every heart a dream 
Of Italy with this soft theme: — 



I 



SONG. 

Oh where art thou dreaming, 

On land, or on sea? 
In my lattice is gleaming 

The watch-light for thee ; 
And this fond heart is glowing 

To welcome thee home, 
And the night is fast going, 

But thou art not come: 
Thou com'st not, — No, thou com'st not ! 

5 



50 THE SUMMER FETE. 

'Tis the time when night-flowers 
Should wake from their rest; 

'Tis the hour of all hours, 

When the lute murmurs best. 

But the flowers are half sleeping 
Till thy glance they see, 

And the hush'd lute is keeping 
Its music for thee. 

Yet thou com'st not, — No, thou com'st not ! 

Scarce had the last word left her lip, 
When a light, boyish form, with trip 
Fantastic, up the green walk came, 
Prank'd in gay vest, to which the flame 
Of every lamp he pass'd, or blue. 
Or green, or crimson, lent its hue; 
As though a live chameleon's skin 
He had despoiled, to robe him in. 



THE SUMMER FETE. 51 

A zone he wore of clattering shells, 

And from his lofty cap, where shone 

A peacock's plume, there dangled bells 
That rung as he came dancing on. 

Close after him, a page, — in dress 

And shape, his miniature express, — 

An ample basket, fill'd with store 

Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore; 

Till, having reach'd this verdant seat, 

He laid it at his master's feet. 

Who, half in speech and half in song, 

Chaunted this invoice to the throng: — 



52 



SONG. 

Who'll buy? — 'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?— 

We've toys to suit all ranks and ages; 
Beside our usual fools' supply, 

We've lots of playthings, too, for sages. 
For reasoners here's a juggler's cup. 

That fullest seems when nothing's in it; 
And nine pins set, like systems, up, 

To be knock'd down the following minute. 

Who'll buy?— 'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy? 

Gay caps we here of foolscap make, 

For bards to wear in dog-day weather; 

Or bards the bells alone may take. 

And leave to wits the cap and feather. 



THE SUMMER FETE. 53 

Tetotums we've for patriots got, 
^ Who court the mob with antics humble; 

^ Alike their short and dizzy lot, 

A glorious spin, and then — a tumble. 

Who'll buy, &c. &c. 

Here misers may their bones inter 

In shrouds of neat post-obit paper; 
While, for their heirs, we've quicksilver, 

That, fast as heart can wish, will caper. 
For aldermen we've dials true, 

That tell no hour but that of dinner; 
For courtly parsons sermons new. 

That suit alike both saint and sinner. 

Who'll buy, &c. &c. 

No time we've now to name our terms, 

But whatsoe'er the whims that sei^e you, 
5* 



54 THE SUMMER FETE. 

This oldest of all mortal firms, 

Folly and Co., will try to please you. 

Or, should you wish a darker hue 

Of goods than we can recommend you, 

Why then, — as we with lawyers do, — 

To Knavery's shop next door we'll send you. 
Who'll buy, &c. &c. 

While thus the blissful moments roll'd, 

Moments of rare and fleeting light, 
That, h-ere and there, their gleams unfold 
In this dark world — like grains of gold 

In the mine's refuse — few and bright; 
Behold where, opening far away. 

The long Conservatory's range, 
Stripp'd of the flowers it wore all day, 

But gaining lovelier in exchange, 



THE SUMMER FETE. 55 

Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware, 
A supper such as Gods might share. 

Ah much lovM Supper! blithe repast 

Of other times, now dwindling fast. 

Since Dinner far into the night 

Advanc'd the march of appetite; 

Deployed his never-ending forces 

Of various vintage and three courses. 

And, like those Goths who play'd the dickens 

With Rome and all her sacred chickens. 

Put Supper and her fowls so white, 

Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight. 
' Now wak'd once more by wine, — whose tide 

Is the true Hippocrene, where glide 

The Muse's swans with happiest wing, 

Dipping their bills, before they sing, — 
* The minstels of the table greet 

The listening ear with descant sweet: — 



56 



SONG AND TRIO. 
THE LEVEE AND COUCHEE. 

I. 

Call the Loves around, 

Let the whisp'ring sound 
Of their wings be heard alone, 

Till soft to rest 

My Lady blest 
At this bright hour hath gone. 

Let fancy's beams 

Play o'er her dreams, 
Till, touch'd with light all through. 

Her spirit be 

Like a summer sea, 
Shining and slumbering too. 



THE SUMMER FETE. 57 

And while thus hush'd she lies, 

Let the whisper'd chorus rise — 

" Good evening, good evening, to our Lady's bright 

eyes." 

II. 

But the day-beam breaks, 

See, our Lady wakes! 
Call the loves around once more, — 

Like stars that wait 

At Morning's gate, 
Her first steps to adore. 

Let the veil of night 

From her dawning sight 
All gently pass away. 

Like mists that flee 

From a summer sea. 
Leaving it full of day. 



58 THE SUMMER FETE. 

And, while her last dream flies, 

Let the whisper'd chorus rise — 

" Good evening, good evening, to our lady's bright 

eyes." 



59 



SONG. 

I. 

If to see thee be to love thee, 

If to love thee be to prize 
Nought of earth or heav'n above thee, 

Nor to live but for those eyes: 
If such love to mortal given, 
Be wrong to earth — be wrong to heaven, 
'Tis not for thee the fault to blame, 
For from those eyes the madness came. 
^ Forgive but thou the crime of loving, 

In this heart more pride 'twill raise 
To be thus wrong, with thee approving. 

Than right, with all a world to praise! 
i 



60 THE SUMMER FETE. 

But say, while light these songs resound, 

What means that buzz of whispering round, 

From lip to lip, — as if the power 

Of Mystery, in this gay hour. 

Had thrown some secret (as we fling 

Nuts among children) to that ring 

Of rosy, restless lips, to be 

Thus scrambled for so wantonly? 

And, mark ye, still as each reveals 

The mystic news, her hearer steals 

A look tow'rds yon enchanted chair. 

Where, like the Lady of the Masque, 
A nymph, as exquisitely fair 

As Love himself for bride could ask. 
Sits blushing deep, as if aware 
Of the wing'd secret circling there. 
Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse, 

What, in the name of all odd things. 



THE SUMMER FETE. 61 

That woman's restless brain pursues, 

What mean these mystic whisperings? 

Thus runs the tale: — yon blushing maid, 

Who sits in beauty's light array'd. 

While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise, 
^ Who from her eyes, as all observe, is 
HfcLearning by heart the Marriage Service, 
B|^Is the bright heroine of our song, 
^^The love-wed Psyche, whom so long 
^■We've miss'd among this mortal train. 

We thought her wiiig'd to heaven again. 

But no, — earth slill. demands her smile; 
Her friends, the Gods, must wait awhile. 
And if, for maid of heavenly birth, 

A young Duke's proffer'd heart and hand 
^ Be things worth waiting for on earth. 

Both are, this hour, at her command. 
6 



62 THE SUMMER FETE. 

To-nigiit, in yonder half-lit shade, 

For love-concerns expressly meant. 
The fond proposal first was made, 

And love and silence blush'd consent. 
Parents and friends — all here, as Jews, 
Enchanters, house-maids,Turks, Hindoos- 
Have heard, approv'd, and blest the tie; 
And now, hadst thou a poet's eye, 
Thou might'st behold, in air, above 
That brilliant brow, triumphant Love, 
Holding, as if to drop it down 
Gently upon her curls, a crown 
Of Ducal shape — but, oh, such gems! 
Pilfer'd from Peri diadems, 
And set in gold like that which shines 
To deck the Fairy of the Mines: 
In short, a crown all-glorious, — such as 
Love orders when he makes a Duchess. 



THE SUMMER FETE. 63 

I But see, 'tis morn in Heaven; the Sun 
Up the bright orient hath begun 
To canter his immortal team ; 

And, though not yet arriv'd in sight, 
His leaders' nostrils send a steam 

Of radiance forth, so rosy bright 
As makes their onward path all light. 
What's to be done? if Sol will be 
So deuced early, so must we; 
And when the day thus shines outright, 
' Ev'n dearest friends must bid good night. 
So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking, 
I Now almost a by-gone tale; 

Beauties, late in lamp-light basking, 

Now, by day-light, dim and pale; 
Harpers, yawning o'er your harps, 
J Scarcely knowing flats from sharps; 



64 THE SUMMER FETE. 

Mothers who, while bor'd you keep 
Time by nodding, nod to sleep; 
Heads of hair that stood last night 
Crepe, crispy, and upright, 
But have now, alas, one sees, a 
Leaning like the tower of Pisa; 
Fare ye well — thus sinks away 

All that's mighty, all that's bright, 
Tyre and Sidon had their day, 

And even a Ball— has but it's night! 



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